


Masterpieces

by Pinky_the_Procrastinator



Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst, Asexual Character, Everyone Is Gay, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gay Male Character, Gay Sex, Happy Ending, High School, LGBTQ Themes, Love, M/M, Olympics, One MC has homophobic mother, One of the MC has no parents, Psychic Abilities, Relationship(s), Romance, Romantic Friendship, Rowing, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Sports, Teen Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:26:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 18,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27804535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pinky_the_Procrastinator/pseuds/Pinky_the_Procrastinator
Summary: Inspired by Haikyuu this is an LGBTQ story about rowers in highschool and about the ambition to win an Olympic medal. A slow burn coming of age novel about ambition, friendship and multiple pairings, with a supernatural twist.Jack Samuel Tifford is one of the most talented single rowers of his generation. He's a Junior at Crawford Pembroke High, a private high school in Boston, and his greatest dream is to win an Olympic medal.He comes off to his colleagues as a silent and brooding introvert, but in reality he is hiding a secret. Jack was born with the ability to sense human emotions, and to feel other people's pains, physical and emotional. Interacting with humans, knowing their smiles are fake, feeling how much they hurt inside, and not being able to do anything to help them is torture, so he has decided to stay away from others as much as he can.On the first day of school of his Junior year Jack's world is turned upside down by two transfer students.An unfortunate event will bring them closer together and eventually, Jack will find out his new friends are harbouring a secret of their own.Post schedule: weekly 1 cp
Comments: 8
Kudos: 13
Collections: Asexual Stories, Asexual fics, GAY Fics, Highschool_AUs, gay





	1. My symphony, my solitude

Solitude.

The quiet of the morning. The calmness of the Charles River mirroring the sky. The sun rising on the horizon, hallowing my boat.

These are all things I love.

I wake up early every day, except on Sundays, to row when the world is asleep. I watch as the glass surface breaks for my hull as I run the boat in the water. I listen to the sound of my oar, as precious to me as a conductor’s symphony, and I murmur my creed under my breath.

_“Out of the night that covers me,_

_Black as the pit from pole to pole,_

_I thank whatever gods may be_

_For my unconquerable soul.”_

For a time, I am set free from the world.

An hour later, Coach uses his megaphone to call me to the shore. I glide to the bankside and align the scull to the floating deck with the starboard side out. I keep the oar blade on my left feathered high above the landing stage, and the other I lay flat on the water to balance myself.

I pull up from the boat, and there is a moment when I am half on water, and half on the shore, when I am still at peace. Then it hits me like a tidal wave.

Barns and Mendoza are tired. They have dark bags under their eyes and their faces are swollen and puffy. Without even realising, their auras latch on to me first, like leeches seeking nourishment after a night of booze and sex. I disapprove of them. In this sport, a night lost equals a full week’s training tossed down the drain. But Coach never tells them anything because they are legacies, and their parents, just like my grandfather, are the top donors of our school.

Simonds is his noisy self, chit-chatting to Bell about matters I’ll never understand. Behind them, Smith and Collins are dragging an icebox filled with water bottles. They crew together in a coxless four. They’re mediocre athletes at best in singles, but together they are as strong as a tight first, and have won a silver at this summer’s State Championships.

Coach claps me on the shoulder. “How is my Champion?” I hide the wince his nearness triggers under a smile. His energy is heavy. I think he is sick, and he knows about it, but he hides it pretty well. I have grown to know there is a fog that covers the sick only I can see. If I step in their personal space, or they step in mine, I can feel their physical pain. It lasts for a couple of seconds, and I can’t tell what is wrong with them, but I have tried in the past to make suggestions to people to go to a random medical check-up, and nine out of ten I was right. The worst is when the pain is emotional, because no physical check-up can help.

“Happy to be back on the water, Coach.”

Mendoza makes that sound he uses when he disagrees with someone. It’s a loud, open mouthed “Eh!”. “I saw you from the Eliot Bridge practicing every day. Our Champion can’t stay away from his mistress.”

“It’s the only one he has,” someone coming down the dock quips, making the others snicker.

I turn to look at _him_. Dickon Jaime Hill, my nemesis. He is everything I am not. Handsome, outspoken, and surrounded by friends. I watch the crew lighten up as they see him, stretching their hands for a handshake, welcoming him, wishing him a good morning. Rowing teams rarely have captains, but he acts like one. The Alpha of our pack.

From all of my team mates, he’s the one I like the least. I am uncomfortable around him. He reminds me of a kraken, with long tentacles searching for weakness in my ship, striking at my hull with every chance it gets to do the highest amount of damage.

He lands his single next to mine and opens his arms for a hug. “Don’t look so glum. I was just joking. No hard feelings, eh?”

I avoid being close to him, because as soon as he gets a foot away from me, my vision turns red. His sexual energy it’s so powerful, it overwhelms me, and when he touches me—a slap on the back, a bro hug, even something as innocent as a handshake—I sense the kraken breaking the surface and gazing up at me, assessing me as pray.

The crew is watching, so I reluctantly hug him. There is tension between us. This summer I won all the gold medals.

He wraps his hands around me and I brace for it. It’s quick, but at the end I burn up like a torch. He makes it worse when Coach calls for a huddle. Leaning on me, he whispers in my ear, lips brushing my earlobe, “My offer still stands.” Flustered, I take two steps away from him.

Matthew Barns, who knows all about _the offer_ , steps between us and elbows Hill in the ribs. “Stop antagonising the prince, asshole. You’re going to make him cry.”

“That’s what I fantasise about,” Hill snickers.

I grit my teeth and avoid them both for the rest of the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem is from INVICTUS by WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY


	2. My space, my fortress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack returns to the dorms for the beginning of the school year and has an encounter in the elevator with Dickon.

Crawford Pembroke High is an all boys private highschool in Boston, near the Charles River. It’s famous for its water sports and training facilities, and it has a campus as impressive as Harvard’s—for a highschool a quarter in size. Some of the country’s best rowers, swimmers, and kayakers have passed through its gates.

Joining CPH was the compromise Grandpa and I made when I started being interested in rowing at fourteen. I agreed to attend this school and make sure I got good grades, and he agreed he would sponsor my rowing gear, scull including, and influence the board to allow me to live alone. One of the few reasons I was grateful for my privilege. It would have been terrible if I had to live with another boy, considering my peculiarities.

Grandfather’s Massachusetts house is only forty-five minutes away. I would have preferred to commute instead of living on campus, but he didn’t want to hear about it, saying living with your mates builds character and long-lasting friendships. 

I spend Saturday and Sunday packing. My team has already moved on campus since Friday, and from the messages and pictures on our group chat, they are enjoying themselves. No one attempts to invite me to join them. We’ve known each other for a year and a half. They know my answer by now. 

At 6 PM I say goodbye to my Grandfather and, as per tradition, to the two sculpted black urns he keeps on the mantlepiece from the library. My parents’ ashes are supposed to be in there. They died in a helicopter crash when I was eleven. I might haven’t known a lot of the world at that age, but one thing I was certain, that ash was not the ash of a human. It had the same energy as the logs burning in the fireplace. But the urns and my presence helped my Grandfather heal, so whenever I left the house, I would say goodbye to both him and the urns because it pleased him. I hoped my parents--whenever they were--they were free and together.

The driver drops me ninety minutes later at the dorms—I asked for a detour to a market to buy the miscellanea I was missing. He offers to help me carry the bags to my room, but I refuse since I only have a laptop backpack, a carry-on and my black training sports bag. 

There is loud music coming from the top-floor window where the Seniors live, a party already in progress. I hurry inside, hoping no one notices my arrival. I want to postpone any form of social interaction as much as I can. I wait for the elevator, anxiously tapping my foot on the floor.

My luck runs out when the doors open, for behind them stands Dickon Hill smiling. 

“You thought you could sneak in without a word to your mates? I’m hurt,” he pouts mockingly. 

“You have a GPS on me or something?” I ask.

“I saw your SUV from my window. You’re the only one with a Maserati Levante. Can’t miss you.”

“It’s my Grandfather’s,” I say as if in apology.

“So it is.” He steps towards the buttons, making room for me. “Aren’t you going to get in?”

“Aren’t you going to get out?” I ask, stepping in. My heart beats as our auras intermix.

“Nah. I live to torment you,” he says, punching the button to the second to last floor, where my room is located. Dickon knows this because Coach made him responsible to make sure the team settles in their rooms without incidents. A couple of years ago, a fight started over the rooms overlooking the Charles River.

He is as tall as I am—all rowers are—so when he comes nearer we stand nose to nose.

“Do I make you uncomfortable?” he asks.

“Very.” The musky scent of his perfume fills my nostrils. “Would you mind stepping back from my personal space?” 

His energy switches from sexual to violent, the shift so fast it’s cutting me at the knees. “You know, I’ve been meaning to ask you. Are you a homophobe? Because I don’t like homophobes.”

I am so taken aback I sputter. “What? No. How did you get that idea?”

“Because every time I come close to you, you grimace.”

The luggage keeps me from hiding my face in my palms. Have I been this obvious?

“I am not a homophobe. I would have reacted the same if it was a woman. I don’t like people in my space, no matter whom they are.”

Dickon raises an eyebrow. “Interesting. How do you manage kissing, then?”

The doors open and I shove past him down the corridor, red up to my ears. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning at practice. Good evening.”

He allows the change of subject, probably storing it away as a reference for future conversations. “There is no practice in the morning. We have to be at school at ten for the opening ceremony, remember?”

“Right.”

“I left your schedule on your bed,” he calls after me.

I find my door number and drop the bags in front of it. The keys are already in the lock. I raise a hand. “Thank you.”

“We have a party upstairs. You’re invited.”

“Maybe some other time.”

I open the door and shove the bags inside, waiting for the ding of the elevator leaving the floor. When I hear it, I close the door and turn the key in the lock twice. Then I lean on the wood and slowly drop to the ground. Exhausted, I lay there for ten minutes.

Truth be told, I am envious of Dickon Hill. 

I don’t think many can escape his charms. Sometimes I wish I could have been smitten by him as well and be done with this cat-and-mouse act that has been going on for a year. It would have made my life so much easier.

Alas, I am not gay, nor bi, nor straight. I have never been kissed, not from lack of interest from both sexes, but from a lack of interest from my own self. If being a foot away from someone with such a high sexual aura as Hill depletes me so much of energy, I can’t even imagine how it would be kissing him. I would probably faint, or lose control and make a fool of myself, and that is the thing I fear the most.


	3. The hands protecting me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First time Jack and Stefan meet.

There is a ritual I follow whenever I have to enter crowded places. It’s not complicated, but it requires a bit of imagination. I see myself as a tall burning candle. When there is a draft the candle flickers, and when there is a strong wind the light dies altogether, so you hold your palms around the flame to protect it. To protect myself, I imagine these large hands made of light cradling me, forming a wall, and my anxiety, a constant companion, takes a step back and allows me to breathe.

I stand in front of Crawford Pembroke High and I imagine the hands. Another year has come. Another year of me acting as someone I’m not and being forced to belong to a group of people my age with whom I have nothing in common. I don’t think like them; I don’t speak like them; I don’t understand their millennial slang, nor their jokes or their passions.

Passions. What are passions, really? Teachers at the beginning of each school year enjoyed tormenting me by asking about my passions. I wish I was brave enough to tell them I was passionate about staying away from people, that I was an introvert that found his happiness in solitude and silence, and that all these questions made me uncomfortable. But I’m not brave, so I just told them about rowing.

The most bewildering thing is that, despite my lack of trying, my colleagues know who I am. A group of Seniors greet me as I pass them, and a member of the swimming team congratulates me on this summers’s double win, demanding a high five. Compliments are another matter I don’t know how to handle, so I clap his palm, and thank him profusely.

Envy has the same energy as greed. When I am subjected to these inner reactions from people that smile to my face and tell me how happy they are for my accomplishments, and ask for high-fives, but then send me needles of envy, I remember why I don’t have any real friends.

The walk down the corridor is where I need my protection the most. Teenagers suffer a great deal, some more than others. Some have identity crisis, some are bullied, some bully because they are insecure, or because they copy the toxic behaviours seen in their homes. Some suffer from love, others from loss, or others from the weight of the parental expectations. They are all candles melting in a blaze of fire, stuck inside their heads where nightmares eat their energy all day long. Being among them feels like being on a battlefield called ‘Life’ and where everyone is cannon fodder. 

I find my locker and shove my backpack in. My phone buzzes with a group message from Hill. “3rd r, left.” He types as if he’s paying for each letter with minutes from his own life. It took me a full month to get accustomed to his coded messages.

I walk to the assembly room and find Hill and the coxless four—my code for Simonds, Bell, Cowlings and Smith—on the third row to the left. He waves at me, pointing to the empty seat next to him. I take a deep breath and sit.

Hill is sleepy, his energy subdued. He keeps rubbing his eyes.

“Are you okay?”

“Why, yes, Jack, why wouldn’t I be?”

“You look tired. Long night?”

He chuckles and shrugs. “A gentleman would never tell. Or are you curious?”

I roll my eyes. “Everything has to be sexual with you. Don’t you get tired passing innuendos?”

“Are the innuendos working in flustering you?”

“No,” I lie, looking away from him. 

Students are clustering in groups about the room, talking about their summer. The energies of envy and ego are running amok like ugly headed serpents. My attention is caught by a cloud of gloom standing slightly apart from everyone. He’s a burly boy, with a mop of curly red hair, looking too big for his clothes. He has a frightened look in his blue eyes, as if any moment someone would jump him. His aura is darker than the others. Is he sick, I wonder? I would be able to figure out if I stood in his personal space, but I don’t think he would like that.

I mentally slap myself over the head. I decided a long time ago I would stop getting involved in other people’s lives. No good has ever come of it. I learned the hard way I couldn’t be anyone’s safety net as long as I don’t have a safety net of my own. 

Worrying about other people’s problems leads to anxiety and depression.

I hear the doors closing and see Principal Daena Walters stepping on the raised stage at the front of the room. The commotion made by the two hundred male students drops to a hush. Some late comers hurry to find a chair. Barns and Mendoza are among them. They make for us, but they are spotted by the Principal.

“Front chairs, gentlemen,” she calls after them. I have been saving their seats to my left. I look around to see whom else needs a chair. The doors open at the same time to allow one more student in.

I freeze, caught in the headlights of a pair of warm brown eyes. The imaginary hands protecting me break and a flood of light surges through my core.


	4. His light

For a moment, I am blinded.

Two years ago, a holy man visited my grandfather. He was dressed like a Buddhist monk, wrapped in a saffron robe and sporting a shaved head. Grandfather had made a donation to help build a temple in Boston, and the man had come to pay respects. When I saw him, a warm shiver passed over my body. I have never met someone made entirely of light. He bowed in front of us, giving us blessings, emitting warmth, tranquility and love for all things. Even grandfather smiled in his presence. 

It shook me that such people existed. I had to leave them alone to recover, because I couldn’t help staring at the monk, and I was getting beyond the point of rudeness. I got out of the house, and yet his warmth followed me. When I turned, I noticed the gold of his aura was swallowing our entire house.

This boy’s aura was similar, maybe not as large, but similar. I could feel it from halfway through the assembly hall. “Wow,” I say dumbly.

Hill gives me a strange look. I bite my tongue and look away from the newcomer. Too late, Hill already spotted him.

“Would you look at that,” he says.

The boy walks to the back row, stopping briefly to search for an empty seat. I cringe when I see Hill raising his hand. “This one’s free.” Then to me, “Let him sit between us.”

I want to complain, but I stand and switch places with the free chair on my left. I know the new kid is coming towards us, for I feel him down to my toes.

“Thanks,” he says, and sits down, dropping his backpack on the floor.

There are three things I notice about him at that moment. I was so caught up in his aura that I barely saw the human behind it. One, he is one of the shortest boys I have ever met, barely reaching my chest. Yes, everyone looks short standing next to me, but he is so tiny I could carry him with one arm. Two, he has heterochromia, his left eye is lighter than his right eye, with golden flecks shining in his left pupil. Hill notices that too, and I think he likes it, which unexpectedly annoys me.

The third thing I notice is the limp in his right leg.

“Thank you,” he says in accented English. “I’m Stefan.” He pronounces it as Shte-ffan.

“Dickon,” Hill says, then starts presenting everyone including me. I nod and mumble a pitiful ‘welcome’. “Is that a Russian accent?” he asks.

“No,” Stefan answers with a smile, “although everybody thinks so. I’m from Romania. It’s close to Russia, but it’s actually a Latin language.”

“Romania... Romania...” Hill is being a dumbass acting as if he never heard of it. He knows where Romania is. They had one of the best female rowing teams in the world.

“You know, Dracula’s country?” Stefan tries to explain. “Where Transylvania is?”

“Oh, that Romania. Maybe you can tell me more about it over lunch?”

I roll my eyes. Principal Walters begins her speech, drowning Stefan’s answer. I barely listen to her. I couldn’t help staring at his right leg. If he is limping, how come the aura around the leg is covered in light? It should be darker, heavier, but not with him.

“I broke it this summer.”

“Excuse me?” I whisper.

“My leg. I broke it this summer. That’s why I’m limping.”

I flush for being caught staring. “Oh, I’m, I’m so sorry, I wasn’t, I just...” I stammer.

“It’s fine. Don’t worry.”

I look at my own legs. “I shouldn’t have stared. It’s rude. Sorry.”

“I don’t mind,” he smiles. It sets his entire face alight, and his aura grows even stronger.

The strangest emotion overcomes me. I get pissed. "You should," I say. "When people are rude to you, you should mind or at least be annoyed with them."

"Why?"

"Because they would take you for a fool if not."

He looks at me confused, but he doesn't have a chance to reply because the Principal calls me and my team mates in front to congratulate us for our athletic results over the summer, and after the assembly is over, I bolt out the doors.


	5. The asshole that I am

The afternoon training is brutal. Coach makes us run for six miles to warm up before taking the boats out. I’m an excellent swimmer, and a very good rower, but with sports practiced on land, I’m like a fish out of water. Running over two miles skirts the boundary of torture. I’d rather swim up and down the Charles River instead.

This is where Dickon Hill is at his best. I keep up with him, but hardly. The bastard leads the jog at a high pace while carrying a tune, making us repeat after him like pension ladies out for a picnic. By the time we reach the river, I’m wheezing and sputtering, with my lungs on fire.

We spend the rest of the training on short 250m sprints where Hill and I compete side by side. He wins some; I win some; and by the end of the day, we’re both exhausted. At least he doesn’t have the energy to joke around as we carry our boats back to the boathouse.

“Can you help me lift Emmanuelle?” he asks. “I can barely feel my arms.”

I crinkle my nose at his boat’s pet name. My team mates thought it funny to baptise their sculls after ’90 porn stars. The double is Jenna and the coxless four is Gina Wild. They consider themselves men of culture.

We help each other in silence. My arms are no better, and the shell is heavy. Dropping it could cause irreparable damage. That’s a rower’s worst nightmare next to injury.

I ask without thinking. “Have you learned more about Romania over lunch?”

“What?” He yawns, infecting me with the need to yawn as well.

There are two options, back away as if I said nothing, or dig a deeper hole for myself. “Did you have lunch with Stefan?”

Dickon blinks, but then the coin drops as he remembers the conversation they had in the assembly hall. He straightens and delays the answer by fixing the cap on his closely shaved head, slowly narrowing his gaze on me.

“That is a strange question coming from you,” he says.

“Never mind,” I say. I look at the iron gates of the boathouse, planning to check where the crew is.

“Wait, wait, wait,” he drawls, raising an arm to block my way. “Why do you ask?”

I have the golden hands around me, protecting me, but his aura is strong and my shield quivers. “Forget it.”

“Is the Prince getting interested in someone? Or are you jealous?”

I hear voices. Coach is chewing up Barns for his poor performance. “Get out of my way, Hill.”

“Not until you tell me why you’re interested in the new guy.”

“I’m not interested in him. I was just making polite conversation with you.”

Hill raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Lies. You never start polite conversation with me.”

“Yes, I do,” I state.

“Give me an example. You can’t, can you?”

“Why are you like this?”

“How?”

“All in my face, pushing and pushing.”

“Because I wish to know why we’re not friends yet?”

“Because you’re super annoying and I can’t stand you,” I shout.

That shuts him up.

I watch in horror as Dickon’s energy deflates like a balloon and takes a gloomy colour. Great. Now he’s hurt. I feel as if I’d kicked an overexcited golden retriever. Floor swallow me whole, I’m an asshole.

“I didn’t mean it,” I say.

Hill’s not looking at me when he replies, “Yes, you did.”

Barns reaches us first. He’s become an expert at reading the atmosphere between us by now and shakes his head like a sage. “Coach,” he calls, “I don’t think it’s safe to leave these two alone in the boathouse. They’re like cats and dogs. They’ll bring the roof on our heads, or worse, on the boats.”

“All right, break it up,” Coach intervenes. “Showers, homework, then straight to bed.”

“Showers and bed, homework later,” Mendoza mumbles.

“Would you like another lap around the campus to freshen up, Mendoza?”

“No, Coach.”

“Then get out of my boathouse, all of you.”

Dickon passes by me on his way out. I want to stop him and apologize, but I fear I might make it even worse. “Hill, listen, I’m...”

“We’re fine.”

It’s twilight outside. He walks into the falling sun, hallowed by the rays.

God. Damn. It.


	6. Thai food

I’m standing in line at a tiny Thai takeout restaurant to get Tom Yum Goong and Pad Thai. They’re not for me, I can’t stand spicy food, it makes my insides come out. They’re an apology.

It’s half-past eight, and the campus is still crowded. I take a shortcut behind the library building because it’s about to rain. The lights are out, not much demand for the library in the first week of school. I reach the dorms and push the elevator button for the top floor.

The Seniors are having a party again, I can hear music and laughter down the hallway. I check my phone again to make sure I have the right room. We posted our room numbers in the formal group chat, where we have Coach too. I reach the room Dickon Hill shares with Barns and after taking a deep breath, I knock. It takes a while before the door opens and a bleary-eyed Barns squints at me.

“Already asleep?”

“I passed out,” he groans, rubbing his eyes. “Coach killed us today.”

There is no one else in the room. “Here,” I say, giving him the take out. “For you and Hill.”

Matt rubs his eyes again. “Am I dreaming?”

“No.”

“Is it poisoned? Man, I know you want to take out the competition, but this is extreme.”

He makes me chuckle. “It’s shrimp soup and fried noodles.”

“But why?”

“I said something I shouldn’t have to Hill.”

Matt takes the food and carries it to his desk as if it’s a bomb inside. “And what, you came to apologize?”

I want to say yes, but the words are stuck in my throat. I’m not accustomed with this. I nod in return.

“Whatever you say, man. I’ll tell him you dropped by.”

“Thanks. Good night.”

I storm down the corridor as fast as I can without actually running. I hear the ding of the elevator and voices coming out. I want to take the stairs down to my room, since it’s only one floor and avoid whoever is coming out of the elevator, but I’m not fast enough. I reach the door handle, but I get sidetracked by the warmth of a golden aura and by a voice I know very well.

“Jack?” Hill calls after me. “What are you doing here?”

Shit. Dickon and Stefan are coming down the hallway, both wet from head to toe. The rain must have started.

“I came to drop something to Barns. I’m leaving now.”

“Don’t be so rude,” Dickon says. “Won’t you say hello to Stefan?”

They reach me, and I get flooded in Stefan’s light. “Hello,” I say pitifully. “Jack Tifford.”

“Hello,” he says with a smile, looking up at me. We shake hands. “I know. We’ve already been introduced today at the assembly.”

“Yeah.” I’m holding the door handle for dear life. “What happened to you?”

“Rain.” Hill says dryly.

“Yes, of course. Careful not to get sick,” I say.

“Aww, you care?”

I make a face. To Stefan I say, “It’s nice to see you’re making friends.”

“Oh yes, Dickon has been showing me around the campus and to his favorite Thai restaurant. I arrived very late yesterday and didn’t get to see the place.”

“Thai?” I look from one boy to the other. “You ate already?”

“Tom Yum Goong,” Stefan says. “First time I had it. Spicy but good. Dickon said it was his favorite dish.”

I laugh nervously, searching for a subject change. “So… you like it here?” I want to kick myself. What a stupid question. He just got here.

“Yes, the campus is huge. We don’t have something like this in my country.”

“Stefan’s a Junior like you,” Dickon says. “Maybe you can show him around the school tomorrow.”

“I… yes, of course, what’s your first class?”

“English.”

“Same for me. I can pick you up tomorrow.”

“Wow,” Hill says. Then to Stefan, “The Prince hardly does anything nice for anyone. Consider yourself lucky.”

Stefan laughs. “The Prince?”

“That’s how we call this pompous di… dork.” Dickon takes me in an arm hold and messes my hair. It’s humiliating, and he’s getting me wet, but I don’t struggle, concentrating on keeping my shield up from his energy. He’s more excited than usual. I think he actually likes this boy. But I don’t know exactly if Hill likes-likes Stefan, or if he is wrapped in his bundle of nurturing energy.

I push Dickon away when I’ve had enough. “Okay. I’m leaving. Change out of those clothes, Hill. Coach’ll kill you if you get sick. I’ll pick you up tomorrow, Stefan. What’s your room number?”

“Last room to the right of the elevator,” Stefan says.

“See you tomorrow.” We shake hands again. I shake Dickon’s hands as well, although we rarely do that, and I open that stair door like a man chased by some ancient Furies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tom Yum Goong - Spicy Shrimp Soup  
> Pad Thai - Thai noodle stir fry


	7. Nightmares

It’s happening again.

My limbs are frozen, and my body unable to move. The room is dark, and I can see the full moon shining outside through the curtains, as if there are no curtains. I can move my eyes and see around me, although my eyes are closed. Shadows dance in my line of sight, and strange echoing noises fill the silence.

My heart beats fast. I hate these moments. They’ve been happening since I was very young and I don’t know how to stop them. I call for my light shield just in time before my fears make me see things that shouldn’t exist, but I know they are there, beyond the light, watching me, waiting to suck me dry of energy as soon as I slip back to my dreams.

I wonder if everyone is suffering from sleep paralysis or if I’m the only one.

I wake up exhausted and with a headache, and with bruises and claw marks on my body.

I inspect myself in the bathroom mirror, glad this time I don’t wake up with signs on my face. My pupils are large from adrenaline. I sigh. I wish I could make this stop.

There are still two hours before the start of the morning, but I don’t want to go to sleep again. I dress up in my training gear. I need the River this morning. I reach the boathouse at a jog and use my keys to get my scull. I carry it to the water and lose myself in its glide on the surface. This is my safe haven, where my demons can’t hurt me.

I row past famous Ivy league university with plans to go beyond the Eliot bridge, but the traffic on the bridge forces me out of my meditation, and I look at my watch, and curse. I need to go back if I want to meet the promise I’ve made to Stefan.

The sun is shining by the time I leave the boathouse. I reach the dorms just as the building is waking up. I pass by rooms where the morning alarm is still ringing. After a quick shower, I’m ready to start my day.

I usually take ten minutes to reach the school from the dorms, but since I’ve seen Stefan limping, I’m mindful of his injury and I’m at his door twenty minutes before the start of the class.

The door muffles the sound of music coming from inside. I raise my hand to knock but linger with my knuckles close to the wood to listen. The song seems to be the same words repeated by a choir in different intonations, like a meditation. Stefan’s voice mingles with that of the choir. I get goosebumps listening to it.

I don’t want to disturb the moment, but I hear a lock turning in the next room, so I knock to avoid appearing like a creep. Stefan opens the door with his customary smile, flooding me with his beautiful aura.

“Good morning,” he says.

I clear my throat. “Morning. Ready?” I do my best to sound normal, but I can’t stop the high-pitched tone my “Ready?” takes.

“Let me get my backpack. Would you like to come in?”

“Will it take long?” There, that sounds more like me.

“No, just a minute.”

“Then I’ll wait here.”

He shrugs and makes his way to his bed where his bag and phone are. Music is still playing on his phone. The room has two beds, but I don’t see any roommates.

The neighboring door opens and a burly boy steps out in the corridor. The dark cloud surrounding him hits me like a brick. I grit my teeth and tense, fighting the desire to step back out of his space.

“Good morning,” I say.

“‘Morn…” he mumbles. It’s the red-haired kid with the cloud of gloom from the assembly. I thought he was a freshman, but apparently he’s a Junior like me. I’ve rarely seen somebody with such an aura, and most of the times they are addicts or people with suicidal thoughts.

I don’t know what posses me to do it, but, “Hey, we haven’t met. I’m Jack Tifford. I’ve never seen you before. Are you a transfer student?”

He appears taken aback that I’m speaking to him. He turns to look at me, or better said at my legs, an awkward stance in his shoulders. “Sam. Joshua. I’ve moved here from Houston.”

“Nice to meet you, Sam.” I extend my hand—aware that as soon as our hands will touch, the power of his energy will hit me like a kick in the guts — but he just stares at it.

“I’m ready,” Stefan says, stepping between us to lock his door, and interrupting the connection between Sam and I. I feel bad for how relieved I am for not getting a direct contact with the kid’s energy. After the night I’ve had, I fear it might have taken me the entire day to recover.

Before I know it, Stefan shifts toward Sam and takes his hand. “Hi, I heard your name was Sam. I’m Stefan. Nice to meet you.” He shakes it up and down vigorously, as if waking a sleepwalker.

My eyes widen at the effect Stefan has on the other boy. His aura does something I’ve never seen before. It creeps slowly up the arm, vines of light fighting the darkness to reach for Sam’s chest. It’s fast, like a lightbulb that bursts in the night, but the effect is visible immediately. Sam’s shoulders relax, and a shine appears in his dull eyes, followed by a shy smile. “Hi,” he says.

Who is this boy? Does he know the effect he has on people?

“We’re about to go to class. Would you like to join us?” Stefan asks Sam.

Curly looks at me, as if asking for permission. “Great idea,” I say.

We are the strangest group. I’m [6.2](6.2)’ and Stefan probably [5.5](5.5)’, while Sam is a head taller than Stefan. He walks between us making conversation about the fast changing weather. It’s a sunny morning, despite the rainy evening. I notice how his energy protects me from Sam’s, like a living, breathing shield.

“What was that song you were listening to when I came by?” I ask.

“Which song?”

“ _Rade_ , _rade_ , something.”

“Oh, Radhe Govinda by Krishna Das.”

“What kind of music is that? Sounded tribal.”

“It’s Hindu music, very nice.”

“Are you a Hindu?”

“Nope. I’m anything and nothing.”

“How can that be?” I ask. “Everybody is _something_ , even atheists. Even the worshipers of that space spaghetti monster.”

He chuckles. “It’s called the Flying Spaghetti Monster.”

“Whatever,” I say with a smile.

“That, my friend, is a question that requires a long answer and we don’t have the time now.” To Sam, “Would you like to eat together at lunch?”

Sam again looks at me before answering. He has these beautiful green eyes that look like spring grass in the sunlight. I realize he’s asking me for permission. Why does he do that? He doesn’t need _my permission_. I give him an assuring smile, hoping it doesn’t look threatening, like a beast showing its fangs.

“I wouldn’t be a bother?” he asks Stefan.

“Not at all,” Stefan answers. “Right, Jack?”

I shrug, “Of course it’s not a bother.”

As we walk down the corridor, I realize that I don’t feel any negative energy from the students around, and it’s all because of Stefan. It’s the first time in years when walking in a crowd doesn’t feel like stepping on a battlefield.

What a marvel this boy is, and I bet he doesn’t even know it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Stefan was listening to:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LEeMdzKSFp8


	8. Sam

I’m disappointed to learn the only class Stefan, and I share is English. His schedule is more oriented towards Humanities, History and Foreign studies his next classes before lunch. I have to separate from him on my way to Algebra. I stick by his side to show him where to find his History class, then I brace myself for his absence.

In summer, tempests appear out of nowhere. The sky is blue and cloudless one moment, and the next, everything is covered in grey fat clouds, bursting with lightning. Stefan leaving my personal space feels a little like that, like the sun hiding behind clouds and the storm taking over.

I take a minute to recover in front of my locker. “I am candle in the wind, and hands of light protect me,” I whisper to myself, eyes closed. “I feel nothing as long as the shield is strong. I…”

“Jack?”

I grit my teeth, and my stomach spasms. He is two lockers away. I can feel his eyes on me.

“Yes, Sam?”

“Here.”

I open my eyes and look. Sam has his palm outstretched, revealing a tiny white pill.

“What is it?”

“For anxiety. You look like you need one right now.”

“Is it legal?”

“My psychiatrist prescribed it to me.”

I close his fingers over the pill. “Keep it. I don’t take pills unless it’s a life and death situation. But thank you.”

“Oh, sorry.” He drops his hand and his shoulders sag even lower than usual.

“Why are you seeing a shrink? For anxiety?” Is that the reason of his gloom?

“Um.” He fidgets. His aura does a somersault as he searches for an answer. When he speaks, I know for sure it’s a lie. “Yes, for anxiety.”

He doesn’t appear to be willing to share more. “What’s your next class? Do you need my help to get there?”

“Oh, it’s a”… he checks a crumpled piece of paper. “Algebra.”

“Great, we’re classmates then. Follow me.”

I didn’t notice this on our way to school, because it was too wrapped up in Stefan, but Sam doesn’t walk side by side with me. He places himself a step back, and a little behind me, as if he’s using me for a wall to avoid eye contact with other people.

There are several students that greet me as we climb the stairs to Algebra class, some asking questions about the summer, some about my new medals, some even inviting me for a night out. I politely decline any invitation, blaming it on my strict training schedule.

“You are really popular,” Sam mumbles are we enter the class.

“Not really.”

I place my books on the last desk by the window and turn to check if Sam followed me, but he has not. I see him pulling the chair of the front desk of the opposite row by the door. There are two rows of desks separating us. I wonder why he didn’t choose the sit next to me since I was someone he knew. I’m tempted to take my books and sit behind him, but I’m too tall and it will be a pain for the students behind me to see what’s written on the board.

It eats me to find out what is wrong with him. What I know by standing next to him is that he is not physically sick, his gloomy aura is emotionally triggered. And it’s not anxiety that is triggering it. That is only a default response to a much deeper wound.

Most of the people I’ve met in my life suffered from anxiety. Even Dickon Hill. He was a nerve wreck before this year’s summer competition. It clung to him like a light grey fog, and it made him doubt himself and lose the golden medal.

I told myself repeatedly to stay out of people’s business. Sam’s problems are not my problems. But I decide that if I can do anything, anything at all to help him, I would do it. He just needs to ask for my help.

My phone buzzes in the back pocket of my jeans. I pull it out and check the screen. A message from Dickon about having lunch with the crew in the cafeteria to share some news. I don’t understand why Dickon needed to create a new group to text us this, but I spot an unknown number in the list. Double clicking on it, I find a picture of Stefan smiling at the camera. 

I save his number, confirm to the group I’ll join them for lunch, and replace the phone in my pocket just as our teacher enters the class.


	9. He’ll never be one of us

I find them at the camping table by the water fountain. The table has only six seats, and they had to join one more table to accommodate the entire group. I had to make a bathroom stop and a detour by my locker, and by the time I join them with my tray, everyone is already there, talking loudly and laughing. Dickon is telling them one of his rowing stories from when he believed a giant catfish chased his boat to eat him.

“I swear, it was as large as Emmanuelle. I almost capsized.”

“What if it wasn’t a catfish, but a shark?” Simonds, known for his love of JAWS, asks.

“There’re no sharks in the Charles River. You think I’d freely climb in a boat if there were?” Dickon points out.

“Have you ever heard of catfish eating people?” Barns asks.

“I have,” Stefan says. “In Romania there’s the Danube Delta, and there are many stories of giant catfish snatching dogs and young children swimming over there.”

The table grows quiet. “How young?” Simonds asks.

“I don’t know. Two, three years old?”

“What parent would let a toddler swim in dark water?” Mendoza grumbles. Dark water is his term for any type of water where you can’t see anything while swimming.

“None, I suppose,” Stefan says. “These are old stories, nothing recent.”

Simonds is a little yellow around the edges. “I’ve been swimming in the lake next to my parents’ mountain cabin since I was very small. What if there were catfish there?”

“Don’t worry. They wouldn’t like your taste anyway,” Bell says. “They prefer smart food.”

“But what if they were really, really hungry? Like starving?” Simonds adds, missing Bell’s joke.

Dickon clears his throat, calling for attention. “As much as I want to continue this fascinating conversation, I have news.” Then he says it louder, spoken in my direction, “Rowing news.”

I was not paying attention, as I was looking across the cafeteria for Sam, but the words ‘rowing news’ snapped my head back to Dickon.

“I knew that would bring you back to us,” Dickon says with a snicker. From his energy, I knew it was not his usual glibness. His laughter felt stiff, more to the benefit of appearances. I sigh. He was still upset with me.

“Cambridge asked our coach if we are interested in a friendly _regatta_.”

“Cambridge?” I ask with a frown. “What type of regatta?”

Dickon clears his throat. “An eight plus one.”

There is excitement at the table. Some of the current Cambridge rowers are Olympic medalists.

“But we can’t,” Barns says. “We don’t have a coxswain.”

“That’s not our first problem,” Dickon says.

“What is?”

I have been turning green by then, and when Hill points to me, I want to drown in my soup. “The Prince doesn’t row in teams.”

Jonathan Simonds looks at me confused. “But this is a friendly race. It’s just for training. Surely you see the benefit?”

“Let’s say I’ll do it,” I state, already ill at thinking of rowing in a boat with eight other people. “It’s an eight plus one. What are we going to do about the plus one? You heard Barns. We have no coxswain.”

“What's a cox… swain?” Stefan asks, and at that moment I see a shine in Dickon’s eyes. Each of our crew straightens and looks at Stefan with a little more interest than before. Simonds’s mouth drops open as he points toward Stefan.

I’m getting a headache. So this is why he invited Stefan for lunch with all of us, instead of just with him.

“A cox,” Dickon says, “is the leader of the boat. He sits in the boat's stern, and steers it, coordinating the power and rhythm of the rowers. He needs to be very slim and short to fit in the stern, but also needs to have a powerful personality to control eight loggerheads like us.”

My crew mates are looking at Stefan as if he’s a piece of raw steak. Barns voices what everyone is thinking, “Someone that looks just like you.”

“Don’t be stupid, Matt,” I say. “You’ve seen his leg. He is injured. He can’t be in the boat.”

“When is this race?” Stefan asks Dickon.

“Beginning of November.”

“My foot should be as good as new by then.”

Dickon lights up like a beacon. Before he has the chance to speak, I interfere. “You’ve never been in a boat before. You need training. Think about it, your leg needs rest.”

“What do you think happened to my leg?” Stefan asks.

Again, I speak without thinking. “You appear to have had surgery.”

Stefan’s eyebrows jump up to his hairline. “How did you know that? Nobody knows I had a surgery.”

Ah, damn. “I mean, you’re limping, I assume you broke something which… um…”

Stefan cranes his neck, looking at me with suspicion. “I had an ingrown nail. Not a big a deal.” To Dickon, “I can do it. I can be your coxswain.”

“YES!” Dickon throws a punch in the air. If not for the crowds in the cafeteria, he might have even hugged the kid. “How about you, Tifford? Are you going to be a quitter?”

I push my tray away from me. I’ve lost all appetite. Rowing is the only place I can be by myself. Saying yes to this regatta means saying yes to training in an eight plus one, constantly being battered by my crews’ emotions. I would be a wreck after the first day of training. I can’t do this.

“No,” I say while standing. “Find yourself another rower. I only row in singles.”

The disappointment on Dickon’s face hits me like a kick to the groin. 

“Why are you being an asshole?” Barns shouts. “What’s the problem? You’re afraid we’ll pull you back or something? It’s a friendly race, no medals, what’s the big deal?”

“I’m sorry.” I can’t tell them the truth, so I choose to be an asshole. “In an eight plus one, I can’t shine. I’ll only be a fifteenth of a whole. It’s not for me. Find someone else to row with you.”

“Oh, I’m sorry we're keeping you from shining,” Mendoza snaps. “Hey, where are you going?”

There is a collection for the used dishes and dirty trays. I walk towards it. “See you later.”

“Hey!” Mendoza shouts. “We’re not finished here!”

“Let him go,” Dickon replies with a tired voice. “It’s no use. We can’t force him. Without him we already are seven rowers, and we have a cox. We’ll just find someone else to fill in the last spot.”

Dickon’s last words follow me out of the cafeteria. “He’ll never be one of us, anyway. As much as we try.”

I want to scream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Regatta - a sporting event consisting of a series of boat or yacht races.


	10. I am the Captain of my soul

I kick the students' toilet door in rage. It bangs loudly on the wall, startling the boys huddled around a tiny window near the far wall. A tendril of smoke lingers in the air from a hastily stumped cigarette. 

I carry thunder and fury like a spiked ball inside me, and I’m in no mood for an audience.

“Out,” I say through gritted teeth.

One of the braver students talks back. “It’s public property.” He barely reaches my chest. I step menacingly toward him. 

“I said, get out.”

He straightens, his chest puffing like a turkey. “Who the f…”

Another silences him. “It’s the Prince. Don’t.”

What the hell does that mean? "Out," I repeat.

I’m about to explode and no one should witness this. Thankfully, their subconscious picks up the danger and they scramble, giving me a wide berth on their way out. The last one closes the door after him, leaving me alone with my demons.

They are everywhere, my shadows, laughing at me, mocking me.

_You’re alone, you’re always going to be alone. No friends. No family. Always alone._

They have my face and they’re reflected in the mirrors, grinning hideously at me, glaring at me with red eyes.

“Leave me alone.” I lean over the sink and clench my hands in prayer. I feel my energy draining fast, my legs weakening, my mouth going dry. If anyone would have been in my vicinity at that moment, would have felt it ten times worse. I whisper:

_“Out of the night that covers me,_

_Black as the pit from pole to pole,_

_I thank whatever gods may be_

_For my unconquerable soul.”_

They gather around me, leeches sucking my aura, loving my weakened state, nightmares brought in the daylight, voicing my biggest fear: _You’re always going to be alone._

The golden hands are no use against my demons, for they reflections of my self, fears and anxieties given a face. Painfully, I go on:

_“In the fell clutch of circumstance_

_I have not winced nor cried aloud._

_Under the bludgeonings of chance_

_My head is bloody, but unbowed.”_

My heart pounds as the words have no power to dispel the shadows. I raise my head to look at myself in the mirror. Madness is painted on my face. My eyes are dilated and I can see tiny bloody veins in the whites around the pupil. Nostrils flaring and hair in disarray. I also notice one of the stall doors is closed and my heart sinks to my stomach. Someone is still in there. Fuck!

I murmur faster, adding my entire will to the words, but they come out fearful and panicked:

_“Beyond this place of wrath and tears_

_Looms but the Horror of the shade,_

_And yet the menace of the years_

_Finds and shall find me unafraid.”_

_Unafraid_ echoes around the white-tiled school toilet, mingling with demonic laughter. The stall opens and the last verse dies in my throat.

Sam is watching me, green eyes in shadows. He has a half-eaten sandwich in his hand, which he throws in the bin.

_Alone. Alone. Always alone._

Sam walks toward me, his aura dark as pitch. He’s looking into my eyes as he reaches for my hand. Electricity explodes between us and all my fear and anxiety is drawn into him.

“It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll,” he says in a calm, stern voice, different from his usual dull tone. “I am the master of my fate…” There is a light in his dark eyes, impossibly otherworldly.

I am staring at him gobsmacked. My fear and anxiety are almost gone into him, sucked out of me like poison from a snake. I breathe. “I am..”

He joins me for finale. “The captain of my soul.” 

We stare at each other for a long time. There is silence. The demons are quiet at last. 

My mouth is ajar. I’m so close to him my breathing is moving a curl on his forehead.

“I hear them too,” he says.

“What did you do?”

“I made it better.”

“You took the darkness into yourself.”

He nods. After my shock ebbs away, my mind is working again. “So take it out now!”

“I can’t.”

“You don’t understand. If you keep other people’s pains inside, it will drive you insane. You will suffer and it’s not going to even be your suffering.”

“I have my suffering,” he says with an exhausted voice.

“Exactly, so you don’t need mine. Take it out!”

“I can’t.”

“You must!” My fingers dig into his shoulders. “You must.”

He pushes my hands away and steps back. “I don’t know how.”

I freeze. I don’t know how either.

“Sam. It’s not good for you. Your aura is already…” I stop. I can’t talk to him about auras. He’ll think me mad. Thankfully, he’s not looking at me, but at a bruise forming on the back of my hand. He touches my skin lightly with a finger. It tingles pleasantly. 

“I used to get bruises like that too, when I was having nightmares. But it never happened while I was awake.” He realises he’s touching me and pulls his hand back as if burned. “I’m sorry. I have to go.”

“Wait!” I grab his wrist. “Why didn’t you come to lunch as you promised Stefan? Why were you eating alone in the toilet?”

Sam turns his head slightly to look as us in the mirror. He’s looking so hurt, I let him go.

“Too many people.” Then he storms out the door, leaving me in silence.

The school bell is ringing, calling us to class. I get out of the toilet, out of the school, out of the campus, and I don’t stop until I reach the boathouse. Training is in four hours from now, but I can’t return to class. I collapse on a bedraggled couch purchased many generations ago. Once it may have been burgundy, but now it was a dark brown, like wilted leaves. 

I have to help Sam. He can’t live like this, a sponge for the darkness surrounding him. He will go mad. A coin for a coin, I tell myself. That’s the reason I’m doing it. No other reason.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poem: Invictus BY WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY


	11. Heavens, how envious I am

On Saturdays I have dinner with my grandfather, usually at his house in Massachusetts, a tradition that started when I was fourteen. We never missed a dinner date, except during the times the organisers extend a rowing regatta into Sundays.

Although it’s only us, a chef and a server, it’s a black-tie event. I find the formality redundant, but Grandfather is from an older generation. I run along with it, because it used to be a tradition he shared with my father.

“How was school?” he asks over filet mignon and buttered mushrooms.

“Fine so far,” I reply. “It was only the first week. How is your health?”

“Fine, so far.” And on we go about the weather, and the news, and the trade war with China.

The problem when you place two introverts together is that none of them is comfortable carrying out a conversation. By 8 PM, after a few more random subject changes, I am dismissed. Grandfather withdraws in the study for his evening pipe, and I climb the stairs to the upper floor where my bedroom is.

The door to my room is of thick oak, with miniature superhero sculptures on both sides. Father had a hobby for carpeting, and he made it when he was himself seventeen. Grandfather redecorated the room when I moved in, but it still has traces of my father’s personality. The painting on the ceiling is a crude representation of Michelangelo’s _Creation of Adam,_ where Adam is my father, and God, a cook handing him his takeout bag with one hand, and flipping burgers with the other.

There are also a lot of boats, two single sculls which I keep on my desk, and ten eight plus one sweeps, some even having tiny rowers pulling at an oar and a coxswain. Father was part of Harvard’s rowing team, taking the first position of the _Stroke_. The Stroke is the rower closest to the stern of the boat and usually the most competitive rower in the crew. Everyone else follows the Stroke’s timing. During a race, it’s the Stroke’s responsibility to establish the crew’s rate and rhythm.

If it wasn’t so hard for me to row in a crew, I could have been the Stroke for our sweep, but I find comfort in knowing Dickon Hill would also be an excellent Stroke.

I pick up the phone and check my screen. 143 messages all in one group chat.

I read through them, scrolling through Collins’s GIFs and emoticons—the guy is as quiet in digital chats as he is in real life—and over Barns silly jokes, and Mendoza’s complaints about me; although I’m in the group as well. Dickon and Stefan's messages carry the important stuff. Coach has signed off Stefan as a member of the crew, and he has ordered equipment for him. Stefan is reading about what it means to be a coxswain. Dickon is explaining the connection between the coxswain and the Stroke, and they are planning a short introduction of the boathouse the very next day.

Heavens, how envious I am.

I come by a picture posted by Dickon of an advertisement poster where he is asking for opinions. It’s a drawing of a boat with seven cartoonish stickmen with smiley faces and photoshopped abs around their torsos holding an oar each. A cloud bubble reads, “Sex! Now that we have your attention, can we interest you in some rowing classes?”

I turn off my phone, texting nothing back. I don’t feel very welcomed.

I leave my grandfather’s house early, and I’m on the bankside of the River Charles by 7:30 AM. It’s the middle of September and the weather is getting colder. I’m still in my jeans and shirt, my training bag on the grass at my feet.

I twist around a thought in my mind, one that has been bothering me the entire week. How do I help Sam? It’s been quiet at night, my nightmares asleep, and for the first time in months I could dream. They will come back—fear and anxiety build prison towers around all of us—but at least I’m alone in my head at the moment, and this is rare. But if I can sleep, can Sam as well?

Sam has not been very talkative the rest of the week. I tried to connect with him in our shared class, but it felt as if talking to a wall. I noticed how tired he was. Why did he do it? Was it the ego of the martyr, a reaction for those that are gluttons for suffering because of some religious beliefs? Was it ignorance of the dangers?

Or is it the act of someone who knows he is already drowning and doesn’t care anymore? If it’s the latter, it’s worse than I thought.

Footsteps crunch the autumn leaves, and I turn to find Stefan walking toward me. His limp is barely noticeable now. I take a deep breath as his golden aura envelops me like a caress.

“Good morning,” I say. I can’t help but smile when I see him. He has this effect on me. It’s not attraction, but the delight of meeting someone that appears to be a wonderful person.

“Good morning, Jack.” The smile he returns on me is brilliant.

“Are you prepared for your first rowing experience?”

“Can’t wait. I’ve been reading books about rowing and being a coxswain all week. I’m very excited to try.”

“I think that would make Dickon thrilled.”

To my stupefaction, Stefan blushes. Oh, no. Don’t tell me…

“He’s been very kind to me, helping me get settled in. I thought I was going to feel alone, but with Dickon time flies.” He mistakes my chagrin for concern about him feeling lonely. “Don’t get me wrong. I wanted to come here. I’m planning to apply to Cambridge, you see.”

“I see. Where is your family now?” 

“Palo Alto. They work in IT,” he explained. “I don’t think I will see them until Christmas.”

“How about Thanksgiving?”

“We don’t celebrate Thanksgiving in Romania, but Dickon invited me to join his family in November, when it takes place.”

I nod. “Happy to see you’re making friends with the crew.”

Stefan gives me a lingering look. “You don’t like Dickon, do you?”

“It’s not that. Dickon is… quite the character. Anybody would be lucky to be his friend. I just don’t do well among extroverts.”

That makes Stefan laugh. “So you don’t like him because he is an extrovert?”

“Let’s just stay I don’t like many people.”

“Roger that.”

Geese are flying in the distance, and a crane lands not far away. I watch the waves, wishing I was already in my boat, rowing.

“Do you like Sam?”

I spin so fast to stare at Stefan I get a crick in my neck. “Why do you ask?”

“I think Sam needs friends. I’ve invited him to lunch several times, but he never came.”

“Maybe he’s intimidated by crowds,” I say.

“Maybe. Should we try to convince him to spend time with us, just us? He didn’t seem to have a problem with you.”

“We could. I have Algebra with him three times a week, before lunch. I can make sure he doesn’t run away.”

“Deal!” Stefan raises his fist for a fist bump. 

I close the distance. “Deal.”

The loud voices from the distance announce my crew mates have finally joined us.

“Well, well, good morning,” Dickon calls. “It appears we now have two early risers instead of one.”

When Stefan sees Dickon, his aura grows in intensity, the gold getting shimmering from his happiness. “Good morning to you too, stranger,” he says. Dickon grins at Stefan, raising his hand to play with his hair. He raises his eyes to me and he has daggers in them. The possessive message of “Mine” is passed loud and clear.

I glare back for other reasons. If Dickon touches a hair out of Stefan’s head, or plays with his heart, or makes him sad in any way, and I see even a speckle of shade in his beautiful aura, I will kill him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are two forms of rowing:
> 
> In sweep or sweep-oar rowing, each rower has one oar, held with both hands. There are usually an even number of rowers – two, four or eight. The 8+1 in this story is a sweep.
> 
> In sculling each rower has two oars (or sculls), one in each hand. Sculling is usually done without a coxswain in quads, doubles or singles. The oar in the sculler's right hand extends to port and the oar in the left hand extends to starboard. Jack and Dickon row in sculls.


	12. The boathouse

I spend the morning tailing Dickon and Stefan and the rest around the boathouse, answering the odd question thrown my way about rowing.

The Crawford Pembroke High Boathouse looks like a museum, a blast from a distant past, a hundred years old. It’s long and dark, boats suspended on both sides on three levels. The newer boats we use for training and competition are at the front, close to the wide the metal reinforced gates. There are canoe and kayaks there as well, as we share the facility with the other school athletes practicing sports with boats.

The middle has an eight plus one sweep on the left side, and four singles on the other. We gather around the sweep as Dickon talks about oars and seats and the different materials the boats are made of. I stand a few feet apart from them.

Stefan listens to Hill’s explanations with a twinkle in his eyes. He touches each boat, his fingers light on the shiny surface.

“How old is this one?” he asks, touching the eight plus one.

“Ten years old, I think,” Hill answers. “The school stopped investing in boats this big since the crew is not that large. Not many teenagers are interested in a rowing career these days.”

“How did your careers start?”

“My rowing career started just for fun,” Mendoza says.

“Mine, too,” Barns adds.

“Masochists,” Collins murmurs, pulling himself briefly away from his phone.

“Masochists,” Stefan asks, alarmed. “Why is that?”

“You have to train a lot to be a good rower,” Hill says. “When we’re closer to a competition, we need to complete two or more training sessions within a single day.”

“That much? When do you find the time? You have school too.”

“It’s a sacrifice if we want to win. During a school week we train twice every Tuesday and Thursday afternoons.”

“And in the mornings?”

“Every day,” the crew says in a choir.

“We have to master our five Ls, or Hill’ll have our heads on a platter,” Barns adds, giving Dickon a mock fearful stare.

Stefan chuckles. “Five Ls?”

“Learn to row, learn to train,” Dickon replies.

“Learn to recover,” Mendoza adds with a yawn.

“Learn to race, learn to win,” finishes Matt Barns.

Stefan is impressed. “Sounds complex. How long have you been practicing this sport?”

“Hmm… most of us for four years, I think, right men?” Nods all around. “Oh,” Dickon says looking at me, “Tifford just for three.” I look at him and he breaks eye contact fast, turning toward Stefan. 

“He’s our prodigy, he is,” Mendoza says in a tone I don’t much care for. “But he can’t be bothered to join a crew, you see. Too good for us.”

“Gabe,” Dickon calls sternly, “we’ve been through this. Enough.”

“Yes, yes, we don’t want to harm the Prince’s feelings.”

I bite back my reply, pasting an unimpressed mask over my features. “I wish you’d stop calling me the Prince.”

“We’ll do, when you stop acting less precious and princely,” Gabriel Mendoza retorts.

Stefan saves the conversation. “I can see you are all very passionate. I’m very curious what is the reason you like rowing so much?”

“Why do we like rowing?” Barns asks. “I, for one, have no idea why, but I consider it my first love.”

“There are many reasons,” Dickon mentions. “I love the feel of the boat gliding through the water, or when I’m on the podium, there is nothing better than the satisfaction of victory.”

“Not even sex?” Barns laughs elbowing Hill in the ribs.

“Concentrate, man,” Dickon replies. “It’s not always about sex.” I roll my eyes.

Each of them adds a reason they like rowing until I’m the only one left. I don’t know if anyone cares, but I reply to Stefan, hoping he would understand me more and not judge me for my hesitation to join the eight plus one. “The solitude,” I add. “The silence. The desire to improve.”

Stefan’s aura is emitting warm waves of satisfaction. Or is that the color of gratitude because we shared with him something very personal?

“I’m almost falling in love with it myself,” he says, turning to the sweep. “Now where do I have to sit?”

Dickon points to the tiny gap in the stern.

“And you think I can fit in there?”

“You’ll fit in like a glove. Your height and body are perfect for it,” Dickon says, unable to hide a smile.

“Will I have to train?”

“Not as much as us. The training for rowers is focused on power and speed, because we have to be strong enough to carry the boat and the coxswain. You on the other hand must stay lean, so Coach said he will send you to aerobic fitness classes.”

“To what?”

I can’t take this anymore. They’re making plans as if they a year to train. “The race is in November,” I say to Dickon. “You’d better spend the time teaching him how to hold the position of his trunk in the boat and how to learn the basics of rowing. You don’t have time for anything else.”

“I can make time,” Stefan intervenes.

“You don’t understand,” I say. “Being a cox is more than simply leading a group of rowers charging towards the finish line in a regatta. Your role is to also make sure you’re not pulling the team back. If you don’t know how to sit in the boat, how to hold your trunk, how to observe the adversary teams without moving your body, you will affect the speed of the boat. And the team can lose because of you.”

“Calm down, Tifford,” Dickon cuts me off. “It’s only a friendly race against Cambridge. We’re highschool students, we have no chance of winning against them.” 

“Yeah,” Mendoza adds, looking at me as if I have two heads. “They have Calvin Hanson as their Stroke, for fuck’s sake. It’s just a good training practice opportunity for us.”

“Besides, we are missing the eight rower,” Collins adds, this time not taking his eyes from his game.

“So in your mind you’ve already lost?”

“Don’t be daft,” Barns says. “How can we win?”

“And you wonder why I don’t row with you?”

Cold, an ice cold energy settles around my teammates.

Great. I’ve ruined the mood. I watch as their auras darken one by one. Dickon turns toward Stefan and says, “Let me show you the boats we have at the back.” They leave me by the long sweep and move towards the end of the boathouse. I bite my lower lip and turn my back on them, so they can’t see the look of pain on my face. Why can’t I keep my mouth shut? Stupid, stupid, stupid.

The back of the boathouse is a hoarder’s wet dream. Crates filled with old training gear, life jackets, broken oars, mahogany boats too old and disaffected to ever be on water again. 

I hear them making plans for lunch. Dickon calls after me to invite me to join them—from courtesy, if for no other reason—but I decline. I should get back to my dorm room and get some sleep. I'm tired.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Rowing Crew, full names:
> 
> Jack Tifford - single  
> Dickon Jamie Hill - single
> 
> Double: Matthew Barns and Gabriel Mendoza
> 
> Coxless four:  
> Jonathan Simonds  
> Brooklyn Bell  
> Nathan Collins  
> Thomas Astra Smith 
> 
> Stefan Novac - coxswain
> 
> I don't have yet a name for Coach, so I just call him Coach, lol.


	13. Winning a small battle

The student cafeteria is opened until lunchtime on Sundays. I decide to make a detour and get something to eat by myself before returning to hibernate in my room. I stop by a tiny market planning to buy bottled water and Gatorade, but decide to pick up a bag of oranges as well. Then, with my paper bag securely under my shoulder, I make my way to the cafeteria.

I avoid this place as much as possible during crowded hours, but on Sundays the number of students drops to less than a quarter. I can eat in peace, without having to protect myself from any stray energy sent my way by whoever passes my table. The menu is not varied, but they always have a veal dish and grilled chicken breast, both great food for athletes who wish to control their weight or gain muscles. I buy both, veal stew with mashed potatoes for lunch, and grilled chicken with rice for dinner. 

The lady at the cash register is new. She’s pregnant, only a few months in, and has a pleasant motherly aura surrounding her. There’s a girl growing in her belly, a little white ball of energy wrapped like a shield around the fetus. Children, born or unborn, always make me smile.

“21,99$, please,”she says.

I hand over the credit card I received from my grandfather when I first joined this school. I look around the room, counting less than twenty students at the tables that can serve over five hundred people. “There isn’t much of a crowd today, is it?” I say nonsensically.

She shrugs. “Sundays are slow. The kids prefer to eat out. They get sick of the same food.”

“I like eating the same food.”

She smiles and hands me the bill, and I don’t know what else to say because I can’t possibly ask her how her pregnancy is going without sounding like a weirdo, so I wish her a nice day and take my leave. I don’t know what possesses me to have one last look around the cafeteria, but when my head turns to the back of the room, I spot a boy huddled by himself at the table crammed in the darkest left corner. There are rows of empty seats between him and the next occupied table. A fog of grey aura levitates around him.

Sam. It can’t be anyone else.

My heart leaps in my chest and I take two hurried steps before I stop and consider my actions. What if he doesn’t want to be disturbed? I would have hated it if someone interrupted me when I wanted to be left alone.

But I said I wanted to help him… so this is an excellent opportunity to… to what? What’s the plan, Jack? I began walking towards him.

“My golden hands surround me. I am a candle that burns bright, and no wind or rain can touch me,” I murmur under my breath. I feel the gentle warmth of my imaginary shield around me as I make my way toward Sam’s table.

He’s reading a book, a tray of untouched food pushed away from him. I try to be as loud as possible, stomping my feet on the floor so he can hear my approach. Last thing I want is startle this skittish boy.

“Hello,” I say rounding the table. “Is this seat taken?” I brag the back of the chair on the opposite side.

Sam appears to have been absorbed in his reading, and my approach feels as if I’ve pulled him from a deep daydream. He blinks at the chair, then at me, recognition downing on his face.

“No,” he answers. He closes his book. I catch a glimpse of the cover. _Celestine Prophecy._ Make a mental note. Could be a good conversation icebreaker. “You can take it. I was about to leave.”

“Would you like to join me for lunch?” So formal, I feel like my grandfather.

“I already ate.”

I look at the untouched food. “Doesn’t seem like you ate. More like you pecked.” I laugh nervously. “You know, peck like a bird?”

He blinks again and pulls himself up. “Enjoy your lunch.”

“Please don’t go, Sam. I want to talk to you.”

He seems surprised. “About?”

“About this week.” He still looks confused. “About the men’s toilet?”

Sam grows scarlet, his pupils dilating. “Did I do something wrong?”

“What? No.”

“Are you here to beat me up?”

“Why would you think that?” I cry.

“Something must have happened if you want to talk to me.”

This was way too convoluted. “Don’t you remember? I was having a meltdown, and you touched me and made me feel better?”

Sam’s mouth drops open. “I did? Oh, no.”

Oh, no? “Sam, do you know what I’m talking about?”

He swallows loudly. “Yes, yes,” he says nervously.

“You don’t look like you know.”

He gets this pained expression on his face, the same he had that day. “I… take these pills, for anxiety. And my memory, if I take more, gets foggy. What day was that?”

“Tuesday. Sam, how many pills do you have to take in a day?”

“One,” he answers, looking at his feet, giving the vibe of a man caught doing a bad thing.

“And how many did you take on Tuesday?”

His shoulders slump. “I can’t remember.”

“But why did you take them?”

“My head, my bad thoughts were loud, and…” He stopped talking, looking at me alarmed, clearly thinking he had said too much. “Please don’t tell!”

I let go of the chair and tighten my grip on the grocery bag. I did this. My demons have been stampeding through his mind, as if they belonged there, gorging on his weaknesses and fears, and forced him to take his mind-numbing pills.

I drop my grocery bag on the table, and take out the styrofoam lunch menu I just purchased, planting it in front of me. “It’s okay, Sam. I won’t tell anyone about your pills. But please have lunch with me? Maybe you can tell me more about that book?”

Unsure of what to do, Sam hesitates between his seat and the exit, his eyes moving back and forth between the two.

“Please? We can have lunch together, then I can walk you back to the dorm. I promise I won’t ask questions about anything else. Only the book.”

When he sits back in his chair, I feel I've won a small battle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey Dear Reader,
> 
> Who do you think the couples are?
> 
> Cheers!


	14. We talk, Sam and I

I’m not much of a reader. My favourite book, genre, or author, these are not things I spent time figuring out about myself. There’s no time for reading when you train twice a day during a school week, not even when you train only once per day. The last book I’ve read was from the compulsory syllabus from last year’s English class. I may not be very interested in books, but I’m curious about Sam’s book if it keeps the conversation flowing between us.

“So what’s it about?” I ask after taking a bite of my veal.

Sam leafs through the beginning, searching for something, maybe a paragraph. I watch as he absentmindedly pushes a russet curl from his forehead. 

“Um, I’ve only read the first two chapters. It’s about this guy who finds out about an ancient scroll written 2600 years ago, and travels to Peru to find out more about it.”

“Cool,” I say. “And what’s the scroll about?”

Sam shrugs. “Some ancient rules about how to live your life.”

I hide a snort under a cough. That sounds utterly boring, but I don’t say it. “That’s nice, tell me more about it after you finish it,” I say instead. “Hey, would you eat something? Your pasta’s gotten cold.”

Sam looks at his dish as if seeing it for the first time. “Oh, I’m not hungry.”

“Trying to lose weight?” He’s a little on the chubby side, making him look like a miniature bear, but that’s his charm.

“Um…”

“I think you look great,” I bulldoze on. “If that is the reason you’re not eating, don’t stress about it.”

There’s this burst of gold in his aura at my words that is eaten up instantly by the gloom cloud. I want to see it again, so I give him another compliment. “Have you ever practiced any sports? You have a body type perfect for almost anything.”

It’s not the right thing to say, I urgently notice. His lower lip curves and he sniffs, as he hunches his back to gape at the hands he has hidden under the table. “Who would want someone like me in a team?”

“Anybody would,” I scramble to say. “My crew is looking for a rower for their sweep. They’d probably welcome you with open arms if you wished to join them.”

That captures his attention. “You practice rowing?”

“Yes. I’m part of the school’s club. Do you know about it?”

He nods. “My former best friend is a rower. I didn’t know this school has a rowing club.”

I frown. “Former? What happened to make him a former friend?”

“An accident.”

Something is bothering me from what he said, so I set the former best friend topic aside. “Don’t you remember on the first day of school, at the opening ceremony, that the Principal called my crew to congratulate us for the State Championship medals?”

Sam looks down again. “Not really.”

“Sam, these pills are not doing you any good. What kind of phony psychiatrist prescribed them to you?”

He winces. “My mother.”

Ouch. Me and my big mouth.

“Sorry. Where is your family now? Where are you from?” 

“Houston. That’s where I was born and where my family lives?”

“Wow, that’s like two thousand miles away. Why did you transfer here? There must be schools just like this one closer to home.”

His aura gets agitated, like a cloud trying to find its place on the sky, but keeps being blown by the wind. I’ve hit a sensitive subject.

“I, um, made a mistake and my mother was upset with me.”

“You were sent to Boston because of a mistake? How big is this mistake?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he whispers.

“Does the mistake have anything to do with the accident?”

“Please, I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Sorry. I’m an asshole.” I take a step back from the conversation and change the subject. “How are you finding school so far? Do you have any roommates?”

“It’s nice, I guess. And no roommates. Mother said I wouldn’t need any. She, um, made a donation,” he whispered conspiratorially.

I almost laugh. “Don’t feel bad about it. My grandfather made a donation too. I’m too crazy to live with someone else.”

A ghost of a smile appears and vanishes quickly from his face. “Yeah, me too.”

I wipe my hands on a napkin and push my empty dish aside.

“If you’re not going to eat that now, you should take it with you to the dorm room. You’re going to be hungry later.”

He looks around, confused. “Where do I find a takeout container?”

“Here, let me. I’ll be right back.”

I jump from my chair and jog toward the cashier lady to pick up a white styrofoam box. “No, no, let me,” I say as he extends a hand to take the box from me. I move the cold pasta inside and carry out both our trays to the collection corner. I feel giddy helping out, being useful to Sam, a pleasant feeling curling in my belly.

As we make our way to the dorm, I ask, “Would you like to come to my room for an orange juice? I’ve bought too many oranges.” I look pointedly at the grocery bag in my right hand.

“Um…”

I wait on tenterhooks for an answer that takes forever to come.

“Okay,” he says eventually.

I smile. “Okay.” 


	15. Friends

Why am I nervous?

There should be nothing to be worried about. I’ve just invited Sam to my room for some orange juice. I keep the room clean—I’m particular about that—and my light shield is still strong, so I only feel minor prickles from his energy, nothing I can’t shoulder, since I’ve been sleeping well lately, and that’s all because of him.

“Welcome,” I say, opening the door and inviting him in with an uncharacteristic flourish, cringing inwardly at my behaviour. Who even am I? I’ve never allowed anyone in my room before, at least not willingly. Nothing can stop Hill lurking about when he has some order from Coach to round us all up for a late night practice. Yes, Hill has keys to all of our rooms. It’s annoying and I don’t like it, but it was either him, or me, Coach’s rule, and I’m no crew captain.

Sam’s first steps inside are tentative. He takes a furtive look around, stopping to observe the tiny kitchen stored where the second bed should have been. It’s nothing more than a tiny sink, next to a foot long cupboard with a travel sized electric stove on top. A juicer and a toaster are on a shelf above the sink, next to a large cup and a glass.

“Sit anywhere you’d like. I’ll make the juice.”

The only choices he has are the bed—queen sized, because I can’t fit on a twin—or a chair. Sam picks the chair and sits on it as if the floor is lava, limbs pulled tight to his body, gazing awkwardly at the white-washed wall.

I busy myself cleaning the oranges and throwing them in the juicer, thinking about a subject to talk about.

“You said…”

“I wish I had a kitchen,” he says. “I don’t enjoy eating in the cafeteria.”

“Oh, well. You can come and use this one whenever you want.”

Sam looks at me, shaking his head. “I can’t. I wouldn’t want to bother you.”

“You don’t have a roommate, so maybe you can ask your parents to get approval from the Principal to fit a kitchen like this in your room.”

He slumps. “My mother wouldn’t like it.”

“Why not?”

“She thinks I’m too clumsy. Probably will think I’ll burn the dorm down. She’s won’t talk to the Principal.”

“Then you can use my kitchen. On Tuesdays and Thursdays I train twice a day, and I arrive very late to my room. You are free to use the kitchen when I’m not here.”

Sam’s eyes widen. “Are you sure I won’t be a bother?”

“None whatsoever.” I finish squeezing the oranges and ask, “Cup or glass? I only have one of each.”

“Cup,” he answers, blushing again. I fill it up with juice and hand it over to him, then pick up my glass and take a seat at the end of the bed.

“What other books do you read? I haven’t read a book that wasn’t on the syllabus in a long time. Maybe you can recommend me one. What’s your favourite book?”

Sam rubs his palm on the back of his head, making his curls stand in all directions. He bites his lower lip and fidgets in his chair as he murmurs the title of the book. I didn’t hear a word.

“Song of what?”

“The Song of Achilles.”

“What’s it about?”

“Um, the fall of Troy?”

“I see. And you like it?”

He nods. “Very much.”

“Great, I’ll check it out.”

A minute passes in silence as I struggle to find another subject to discuss with him.

“You said you had a friend that was a rower.”

“A former friend.”

“A former friend. But did you practice any sports yourself?”

He looks at the juice inside the cup as if he’s trying to divine the future in there. “I tried, but… um, I don’t feel comfortable in a locker room.” 

“Then how do you manage P.E.” 

“I’m exempted from P.E.”

“Oh,” I say. I couldn’t have known. All the club athletes are exempted from P.E.

“Is it medical? Heart, asthma?”

He shrugs. Pulling out words from him feels like pulling teeth. Is this how I look to people like Hill?

“Sport is great for the mind. It has helped me a lot with my anxiety. I was a lot worse three years ago. Now I have a purpose. If your problem is not medical, you could try it out. Maybe not rowing, but swimming or other sports practiced in the other clubs.”

“No one would want me in their team.”

“You keep saying that. Why do you think so? You seem like a nice guy, don’t understand what’s the matter.”

“I’m gay, Jack,” he says, looking at me with a challenge in his eyes, as if expecting me to kick him out of my room or something.

I stare at him, trying to connect the dots. “So?”

“So who would like me creeping around the boys’ locker room?”

I think about Hill who glows like a burning coal whenever he sees a boy he likes, or about Barns who’s given me way too many hints he's bi, or even about Stefan who’s been blushing at Dickon--to my chagrin. “You'll find that in our rowing team, you'll fit right in. It’s 2019, no one cares.”

Sam opens his mouth and closes it, at a loss for words. I watch as his aura plays around him, several streaks of gold now challenging the fog.

“You don’t have a very good opinion about yourself, do you?”

Another shrug. I wish he opened his mouth to answer.

“Well,” I say standing, “We’ll have to work more on that.” I take the empty cup from his hand and leave it in the sink together with my glass. I stand in front of him and stretch my hand toward him, inwardly preparing myself for the prickle of pain to come. “My name is Jack Tifford, and I would like to be your friend.”

Sam stares at my outstretched palm and blinks. “Are you sure?”

“Very.”

He touches my fingers, then quickly grabs my hand in a firm handshake, then releases it as if he had touched a red hot iron. “Samuel Joshua. Friends.”

“Friends,” I say, unduly proud of myself for not caving when his energy felt like a sucker punch to my gut.

 _Friends_.


	16. Fastest decision I ever made

Monday comes in roaring with thunderstorms, strong winds, and the smell of dried wet leaves so familiar in autumn. Coach moves our training indoor for the entire week, trading rowing on water to pulling weights and murdering the rowing machines.

I watch with the corner of my eye how Hill unconsciously follows Stefan’s around the gym like a puppy. It’s quite funny. Stefan’s training focused on fitness and stretching, spending most of his time on the mat, as coxswains need to be fit and nimble, while the rowers big and strong.

Dickon literally dragged his bench press four feet away from Stefan’s mat. When Stefan moved to get some water, Dickon decided it was time to take a break as well and followed our new cox to the water corner to engage him in conversation. Every time Stefan came into the training room, Dickon’s energy would turn soft and nurturing, reflecting Stefan’s like a mirror. I could stand in his presence without getting nauseated. It was creeping me out. But I was also happy no one was bothering my training with stupid questions, as HIll liked to do.

Stefan’s presence did something incredible to the crew, something they didn’t even realize it was happening to them. I no longer needed to concentrate on my shields when he was in the room, his aura temporarily clearing the dark energy from every nook and cranny, covering it in light. I could finally breathe. What was his secret? Did he know what he could do? Probably not.

We have two training sessions on Tuesday. I knock on Sam’s door and wait for him to open.

“Hey,” I say when I see his face through the narrow opening of the door. He smiles and swings it wide. “Yes?”

“I’m off to training. Here’s my spare key. Do your worst.”

“Are you sure I can?” he asks, like for the tenth time since I offered. “You can take it back.”

“Don’t be silly,” I reply, dropping the key in his palm. “Just make sure you don’t burn my room.”

That made him smile. “I’ll try.”

There is a new streak of light pink tangled in his dark cloud. I know what it means, and usually I take two steps back when I see this color diverted towards me, but with Sam… I don’t know.

I can’t say why I did it. It was instinctive. In hindsight, maybe it wasn’t the best idea. But I don’t regret it.

With a deep breath, I raise my hand and mess with his hair.

“See you later.”

Speechless, Sam nods, placing his hand over the top of his head where my hand has been.

I sprint toward the training facility with a smile on my face.

Sam has a crush on me. That’s what the pink is. He has a crush on me and for the first time even I’m not even mad.

I’m waylaid in the locker room by a fuming Dickon Hill. Red, angry energy erupts from him like tiny geysers. Haven’t seen him this angry since he found a scratch on his boat.

“You arrogant, self-serving brat,” he cries as he sees me enter. “I hope you’re happy! It’s all your fault for being so, so…”

I frown at him. “What?”

He closes his locker and stomps out of the room, howling dramatically.

I turn to my other colleagues. “What?”

“We can’t row with Cambridge,” Barns answers, looking at me with narrowed eyes.

“What are you talking about? You can take anyone.”

“Well,” Mendoza says, “apparently Calvin Hanson wouldn’t row unless both you and Dickon are in the boat.”

Taken aback, I croak, “Seriously?”

“That means we don’t need Stefan anymore as a cox,” Barns says.

For Heaven’s sake. I follow Dickon out of the locker room to Coach’s office. Both Dickon and Stefan are there, quietly talking to Coach.

“Of course you are free to join us,” Coach says to Stefan as I enter his office. “Maybe we’ll be lucky and find an eight rower for the Spring Regatta, and we can compete as an eight plus one.”

“Where?” Dickon asks miserably. “No one’s sadistic enough in our school to try this sport.”

“Hey,” Stefan says, rubbing his back. “You found a cox, surely you can find another rower.”

There is silence when they acknowledge my presence in the room. I take a deep breath and brace for the avalanche of “happy puppy” energy that is going to come from Dickon.

“I’ll do it. I’ll row with you.”


	17. I’ll be rooting for you

Dickon takes a sharp breath, a hand placed over his heart.

“Don’t joke with these things,” he says. “Or I’ll never speak to you again.”

“I’ll do it. I’ll row with you against Cambridge.”

“What made you change your mind?” Coach asks.

I look at Stefan who had been standing behind Dickon, smiling at me, as if he knows something none of us do. I’ve only met him for a couple of weeks, but I feel like a different person knowing he is nearby to fend off the aggressive waves of energies surrounding me.

“Maybe I was too selfish.”

Dickon snorts at that. “‘Maybe’, he says.”

“I’m sorry, Dickon.”

His eyebrows almost reach his hairline. He points at me. “Coach, who is this, and what happened to the real Jack Tifford?”

Coach chuckles and pats his back. “I’ll leave you boys to settle this alone. I’m too old for this shit. Stefan, follow me. I received your new gear today.”

“Sure, Coach.” Stefan walks behind Coach, his warm smile still lighting his face.

I turn to Dickon, confused. “What have I done now?”

“You called me Dickon.”

“So?”

He stares at me in disbelief. “You never call me by my first name. It’s always ‘Hill this’ and ‘Hill that’.”

I frown. I think he’s right.

“You’re being uncommonly chummy today.”

“Well, don’t get accustomed to this.”

“Are you coming down with something?“

“Shut up.”

Dickon gives me a long, soul searching look. His aura is filled with streaks of gold, but there is also some vivid green and red, dangerous colors.

“Jack, can I ask you something? And will you give me a serious answer?” The green intensifies. I watch it whirl around him like a serpent.

“Yes,” I say, and I mean it. Whatever he wants to ask has to do with the green of jealousy. “Do you like Stefan? You changed a lot since he came to our school.”

Ah, there it is. “Dickon, there is something you need to know about me. I never had any sexual feelings toward anyone, no matter the gender. Whatever feelings I might have toward Stefan, they will always be feelings of friendship.” I step toward him, and although his strong sexual energy makes my teeth rattle, I touch his shoulder. “I think Stefan can be very good for you. Don’t ruin this.” I smile at him for the first time. “He’s all yours, tiger.”

Dickon’s mouth opens with words he cannot speak. His chest rises up and down, and his breath is shallow. “I…” he tries to say, but tears are falling down his cheeks. “You never smiled at me before either. I thought you hated me.”

“I’m sorry. I was a dick.”

“Yes, you were,” Dickon sniffs. “I only wanted to be your friend.”

I laugh and push him gently away. His energy is getting intense. “Stop flirting with me and we will be best friends.”

“I… never…” he sputters.

“Mhmm,” I say.

“Okay, fine. Maybe I had a little crush on you. Not anymore.” He crosses his arms, confident in his affirmation.

I nod. “I know.” I stretch my right arm for a handshake. “I’ll be rooting for you and Stefan.”

Dickon grins. He takes my hand and shakes it firmly. “I’ll be rooting for you too.”

“Yeah, fat chance of that happening.”

“Never say never.”

Coach pokes his head in his office. “If you two have kissed and made up already, you’re invited to start your training.”

We straighten and step away from each other. “Yes, Coach!”

There is a delightful smell of rosemary wafting down the hallway when I return to my dorm room. I stop in front of the door and listen to the sounds coming from inside. The sink water is on and I hear metals clinking.

I knock and try the handle. The door opens unimpeded and I step inside.

“Oh, hello,” Sam calls from the sink. “Sorry, I was just finishing here.”

“What…?”

There is a table in the middle of my room, a table I don’t own, and there are two sets of plates I never seen before neatly arranged with napkins, cutlery and matching glasses. A small plate of apéritif with hummus, olives and carrot sticks is placed between the two larger plates. There’s salt and pepper on the table. The glasses contain freshly squeezed orange juice.

“I, ugh, made dinner,” Sam says, turning the color of pomegranate. “I thought you would be hungry from your rowing training.”

Any other day, with any other person, this would have been a cause for irritation. But, as I was standing dumbly in front of my door, and gazing at Sam’s aura--that had more gold than dark for the first time since I’ve met him--made my heart twang.

“Thank you,” I say, dropping my training bag. “What’s for dinner?”

“Do you like salmon?”

I smile. “I do.”


	18. I think I’m capable of love

It was a simple dinner. Salmon grilled in the pan and basmati rice. I take my first bite, the hot meal warming me up. I can taste butter both on the fish, and in the rice. Incredibly delicious.

Sam eyes me beneath his eyelashes, slowly biting his lower lip. A red curl keeps falling on his forehead, and he pushes it back, agitated. “How is it?”

“Best meal I had in weeks!” It’s not a lie. I’ve been eating takeout or canteen food since arriving here, with the occasional salad, omelet or sandwich prepared in my tiny kitchen.

Sam perks up, releasing a long breath of air. “For real?”

I nod. “Yes, it’s very…” I search for the perfect word. “Umami.”

“Umami?”

“Savory. You’re an excellent cook.”

Sam looks at his hands and shrugs. He’s quite adorable.

I frown at my trail of thought. When did I last think someone or something was adorable? It may probably had been a dog.

“If, if you like it, can I… do it again next time?”

“You mean cook for me?”

Sam nods again, his ears turning pink.

"Yeah, sure. Absolutely!”

“You mean it? Thank you!”

“I don’t understand why you’re thanking me. I’m the one getting fed with wonderful food.”

“It’s your kitchen,” he points out.

His phone rings before I can come up with a reply.

“Excuse me,” he says, standing to pick it up from his back pocket. As soon as he sees who’s calling, the energy in the room changes to pitch black. I’m so taken by surprise by the sudden change I almost tip my chair.

The darkness filling the room is unbearable and an all too familiar is ringing in my ears. My body tenses, and I grunt at the pain of the cramps piercing my stomach. I call for my shield, imagining the white light hands growing large around me. I urge myself to take deep breaths to calm the blood pumping in my veins.

Who was that on the phone, and why did the call affect Sam so badly?

None the wiser to my struggles, Sam turns the phone off and replaces it in his pocket. The sparkle is gone from his eyes, but he puts on a fake smile. “Wrong number,” he says.

“Are you sure?” I ask.

“I’m sure. Let’s eat until it the food gets cold.”

“Sam. Who was that?”

His entire body tenses, like a rabbit ready to run. “Nobody.”

“You can tell me. I’m your friend.”

“Can you stop, please?” Sam asks with a raised voice. Then his eyes widen and he covers his mouth with his hands. “I’m so sorry.” He stands. “This was a mistake. I shouldn’t have bothered you. I’ll go. I’m sorry.”

I stand as well. “Wait, Sam! What the hell is wrong with you? Talk to me.”

“It’s nothing to talk about.” His hands are shaking as he reaches for the door handle.

I get to him before he can open the door. I wrap my fingers around his forearm, stopping him from leaving. “Don’t go. Please. I promise I won’t ask you any more questions. Okay? Let’s sit down and eat the food you prepared.”

Sam stares at the door handle for a long time. I can feel his pulse through his shirt. His entire body is rigid and cold. Then he sighs, “Okay.”

I feel as if I’ve won one of the most important races in my life.

It’s awkward after that. Sam is back in the same shell I found him in the day I met him, and it takes me most of dinner to get him out of it.

“We’re going to have a friendly race against Cambridge in November. Usually there is a party after that. Would you like to join?”

“ _You_ want _me_ to go with you to a party in November?” he asks.

“Yes. Stefan will be there too. And my crew mates. It will be fun.”

“I heard you hate parties and join none of them.”

“Where did you hear that?”

“I dunno, at school.”

“People gossip about me?”

Sam laughs. The sound makes me smile, especially that his laughter changes his aura. “You are the main gossip in our school. The Untouchable Prince.”

“What do they say about me?”

“That you are haughty, unfriendly, and don’t give a shit about anyone. Excuse my French.”

“Wow,” I say.

“Half wonder if you have a girlfriend, and the other half if you have a boyfriend. All agree you have a stick up your arse.”

“Do you believe them?”

“Who am I to judge?”

“So, you don’t believe I have a stick up my arse?”

“Oh, _that_ I believe,” he chuckles. “But you are not unfriendly. If anything, I think you are just like me.”

“How exactly?”

“Scared.”

I sit up straighter in my chair and watch him. “Sam, you really don’t remember that time we've met in the men’s toilet at school?”

“I’m sorry. The pills. My memory is fuzzy.”

“I’m not a doctor, but are you sure those pills are good for you?”

Sam shrugs. “They numb my mind.”

“Does it need numbing?”

“Yes.”

I look at him. “Sam, I know you are not ready to talk to me. But know this. I’m here for you. I don’t know why, or when it started, but I want to be someone you can rely on. Someone you can lean on when you need it. Someone you can turn to when someone who has hurt you calls you. I don’t know if I’m going to do a great job about it, I’ve never been someone’s best friend. But I will do my best not to disappoint you. That I promise.”

Sam’s eyes pierce me with a long stare. I can feel the weight of my words on my shoulders. For the first time, the ostrich had pulled its head out of the sand and had made a step forward.

“The one who called me today used to be my best friend. He manipulated me into falling in love with him, used me and tossed me away like a piece of chewed up gum. Then he called my mother, the biggest homophobe on the planet, and told her I was gay. I don’t believe in best friends anymore. A normal friend will do.”

I did not expect such a confession so fast, considering his reaction from earlier. I cradled his secret in my hands and vowed to protect it.

“I am not that person. I won’t manipulate you to fall in love with me.”

“And what if I fall in love with you, anyway? I’m gay, remember? And you’re very date-able.”

I think about it. “I’ve loved no one, except my parents and grandfather. I’ve never fallen in love. But I think I’m capable of love. I guess we’ll cross that bridge if we get there. I have one request?”

“About?”

“Don’t hide it from me if it happens. I react negatively towards someone—anyone—lusting for me, but when it’s about love, affection, or friendliness, it’s hard for me to make a difference between these emotions. They have the same color.”

“Same color? What do you mean?”

“I’ll tell you one day. When you will trust me with your secrets, I’ll offer you mine in return.”

It’s dark outside the window. The corridor outside my room is quiet, students already in bed, preparing to sleep.

Sam gathers the plates. “I’ll clean this up.”

I stop him. “I’ll do it. If you make the food, I’ll wash the dishes and give them back to you tomorrow morning.”

“Okay.” Sam stands and stretches. “First class is Math. Come pick me up?”

“I’ll be there are seven thirty.”

“Great. Well, goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

That night in bed I think about everything that had happened during the day. I committed to be part of the eight plus one crew, I was nice to Dickon, and I opened up to Sam. I expected to feel anxious, but in reality, I felt nothing but calm.

Maybe my luck was turning around and I could leave my loneliness behind.


	19. That damned shirt

I suppose it was to be expected that I will spend the first half an hour in the eight plus one arguing with Dickon.

Stefan took his place as the coxswain, Dickon the first position of the Stroke, and I was second behind him. And I hated it.

It was the first time I had to time my strokes after someone else’s. Dickon was a completely different rower than I was. His technique was all over the place, like a child on sugar rush. He was “shooting his slide” as we rowers like to say, did not connect the drive of his legs and the drive of the rest of his body well, which not only cost him power but also made the boat lurch.

If this was how he rowed, I can’t believe he could stay afloat his single without flipping. It’s even harder to believe the medals he had won in his life.

And I wish that was the only thing that annoyed me. He talked too much, whistled, sang, mumbled to himself, driving me nuts. He should have been paying attention to his rowing, not belting the lyrics of ‘ _What does the fox say’_.

“Stop!” I call when I can’t take it anymore. “What the hell is wrong with you, Hill?”

“What?” Dickon calls over his shoulder, raising his oar above the water. He’s followed by the rest of the crew, and we slowly glide for a few moments.

“What do you mean ‘what’? Don’t you see how the boat keeps lurching? We look like a dead beat car on its last drive.”

“No, we don’t.”

“Yes, we do.”

“Nooooo, we don’t.”

“What are you two, five?” Barns calls from behind me, where he has taken the third position.

I ignore him. “Dickon, you must do something about your technique. You’re the Stroke, we have to copy your movements. If we row as you row, we’ll shoot down the drain the years spent on perfecting our strokes.”

“What about you, Tifford? Are you aware how tight and constricted you are right now? It gives me chills. I can hear your teeth gritting. You get too emotionally involved in this for your own good.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

And so it went until Friday. Half an hour after the training had started we were so loud, bickering more than rowing, that Coach called us back to the bank.

“It seems we have a problem.”

“You bet we do, Coach,” Dickon says. “And it’s called Jack Tifford.”

“You’re a man-child,” I shoot back. “And you row like one too.”

Coach rubs the back of his head, looks at the sky and sighs. “I guess there’s nothing we can do about it. We need to bring out the _friendship shirt_.”

The outrage explodes from both of us at the same time.

“Excuse me?” I screech.

“No way! Coach, what the f…?”

“Manners!” Coach cuts him off.

“But…”

“Coach, you can’t!”

“The entire weekend!” Coach shouts to cover our complaining. “And Stefan will guard you to make sure you don’t remove the shirt until Sunday evening.”

“Coach, I have dinner with my Grandfather!” I cry. “I have homework. Errands. Friends to meet.”

Dickon scoffs. “You? Friends?”

“What is the _friendship shirt?”_ Stefan asks, completely confused.

“Training is over for today. Follow me to the boathouse.”

I’m so downcast, I don’t even react to Mendoza’s jabs.

We lower the boat on its holders and wait for Coach to return from the back, where it’s dark, dusty and probably a kingdom for giant rats.

The moment the crew sees the shirt stretched by Coach’s arms, they burst out laughing.

It was made from patches cut from other shirts worn over the years by members of the rowing club. Twenty generations went up in creating the oversized tent that could cover three rowers as large as myself.

“It’s dirty, Coach,” Dickon whines.

“And it stinks of dead rat,” I add.

“You better wash it then, because you’ll sleep in it.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me. Coach, Tifford will smother me in my sleep with a pillow. Don’t you care about my life?”

Matt Barns leans his shoulder conspiratorially on Stefan and whispers in his ear. He’s so loud, we all can hear him. “You’ll have first row at the circus. If they kill each other, record it on your phone for posterity.”

Stefan, god help him, giggles.

“I won’t do it,” I say, folding my arms. “You can’t make me.”

“Me neither, Coach,” Dickon says, copying my stance. “I’m not a kid anymore. I’ll be eighteen in a month.”

Coach raises an eyebrow and picks up the phone.

“Hello, Mister Tifford Senior?”

He called my Grandfather and Dickon’s Mother.

Spoiler alert.

We spent the weekend in the damned shirt.


End file.
